


If It's Cloudy or Bright

by pearl_o



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - World War II, Chess, Class Differences, Internalized Homophobia, Letters, M/M, Post-War, Reunions, casual background Erik/Moira
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 03:49:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8733685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearl_o/pseuds/pearl_o
Summary: It's too late to write back now, Erik thinks. Not after all this time.But he would--he would like to see Charles again, he thinks.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nextraordinaire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nextraordinaire/gifts).



Erik is standing by the window, peeking through the blinds at the street outside (quiet, practically dead just as it always is on Saturday nights, everyone in this neighborhood down with the sun) when Moira returns to the bedroom. He's only pulled his shorts and undershirt back on, but a few minutes in the bathroom and she's completely put together again: face, hair, stockings all as neatly arranged as when she arrived earlier this evening. The only thing amiss is her dress, hanging loosely in the front as she holds on to the fabric.

"Zip me up, would you?" Moira says. It's not really a question, and she turns around without waiting for an answer, brushing her hair out of the way with one hand.

Erik walks over to her silently. She smells like powder and faint rose perfume. The soft, pale nape of her neck is before him and he wants to kiss it. Bite it. Kiss her again, dirty and long, stop thinking--but he's still sweaty from their coupling, his mouth still tastes like her sex, and she's already proper again and perfect.

He pulls up her back zipper in one easy slide. The metal feels cool and sharp and comforting under his fingers and he lets his thumb linger against the slider. "You should let me take you out sometime," Erik says out loud.

They could go dancing, maybe. Or to a movie. It's been years since Erik was out on a date, but he still remembers how things went. 

Moira's silent for a moment before she says, "You're lucky I know you so well." She moves away then, picking her shoes off the floor by the bed before sitting down on the edge of the mattress to slip them on. She adds, shooting Erik a curious look, "If I thought you really meant it, I might be tempted to take you up on it, and then where would we be?"

"Who says I don't mean it?" Erik says. His hands fiddle with his cigarette a little. He should offer Moira one, too, if only to be polite, but he already knows she'll turn him down; she only smokes Lucky Strikes.

Moira doesn't give him a real answer, just shakes her head with a smile. She finishes putting on her shoes and stands up, grabbing her purse from the desk where they left it between their cocktails earlier. 

Moira is gorgeous, intelligent, independent, and classy. She doesn't take crap from anybody. She might be ambitious, set upon her career, but Erik doesn't really mind that. Aside from the religion problem, even Ma probably would have approved of her. 

If he had thought about it beforehand, he might have expected to be disappointed by her rejection, or annoyed, even, but...he's not. 

He escorts her to the front door and watches her walk to her car, and he feels just like he always does.

* * *

When Erik gets home from work Monday, the first thing he does is take a shower. It's his normal worknight routine, setting the temperature to hot and peeling off his coveralls, stepping into the water and taking a few minutes to wash and soak away all the grime and grit from his day at the shop.

He dries off, combs his hair, and pulls on his bathrobe afterwards and heads down to the kitchen. When Ma was still alive she'd have already eaten by the time he got home, busy sewing and listening to her radio programs in the front room by now, but she'd have his dinner waiting, staying warm in the oven. These days Erik heats up his own. The tiny freezer is still full of various casseroles and dishes from all the little old ladies of the neighborhood. All he has to do is pick something out every week. 

The letter's still sitting in the middle of the kitchen table, exactly where he left it on Friday. He eats his chicken soup in silence, looking it over. 

He should just open it. He doesn't know why he hasn't yet.

It looks exactly like every other letter Charles has sent him: same flowing handwriting, same expensive-looking creamy ivory paper. 

Charles had told him, the last time they saw each other, that he would write, and Erik had given his promise in return, that they would stay in touch. He had meant it when he said it. Once he got home, though, it was different. Back in civilian life, it was hard to remember the closeness they'd had; the distance between them, their lives, was going to win out in the end anyway. What use was there in prolonging the end? Why drag it out? And then he'd been busy, work, and then even more with Ma as she got sick.

Still. Charles had kept writing, month after month. Right until he didn't, anymore, and Erik had figured he'd finally run out of patience with Erik's silence. It was only fair. Erik couldn't blame him. That was that.

Except here is it. Another letter, all these months later. 

Erik's sick of seeing it here on the table. He grabs the letter opener from the counter and slits the envelope open in one motion, dragging the paper out to read.

It's a letter. Not a particularly interesting one. Chit chat, a few notes on the weather, a story from Charles's trip to the market the other day. There's nothing special about it, nothing personal, and Erik shouldn't have expected any different, because it's exactly like every other letter Charles has sent.

Maybe this is why Erik never wrote back. He can't think of a single thing to say to these words. It could be from anybody. It could be _to_ anybody. There's not a single thing about it that compares with what it was like to actually be around Charles, that exciting intensity, that instant bond. 

At the same time, though… Erik remembers them sitting together, shoulder to shoulder, as they wrote. Erik's correspondence to Ma and Magda, short assurances that he was still alive and doing well and acknowledging their own letters in return, were always done quick, but Charles would spend ages longer working on his letters to his sister. He'd chew on the edge of his pencil, staring into space for long moments before scribbling down any funny stories or observations he'd collected over the last few weeks. The end result could just as easily been from a kid away at summer camp, that featherlight or shallow, but Charles had put all that work into it, nonetheless.

It's too late to write back now, Erik thinks. Not after all this time. Not after he still doesn't know a damn thing to say. He can't write like Charles, pages full of words that don't mean anything, but he doesn't know what else he could think to put down either.

Not letters, then. But he would--he would like to see Charles again, he thinks. 

(When was the last time he admitted to himself something he wanted? a voice in the back of his head asks. He ignores it.)

It's not that far, all things considered. He has plenty of vacation time coming his way at work--he hasn't missed a day since he came back, not counting for the funeral and preparations, and Mort's been pushing on him to take a break anyway. He can take a few days, drive up to the address on the letters, and say hello. 

All right, Erik thinks. It's decided, then. 

* * *

It really isn't so long a drive. A couple of hours are all that's separated them all this time. It feels like it should be more. 

Erik takes a break halfway through the trip to pull off to a clearing by the side of the road and eat the sandwich he's packed himself. It's slipped into spring almost without him noticing, and everything is bright and verdant and aggressively in bloom all around. He chews his pastrami and remembers the last time they were on leave together, near the end of the war.

Some of the other guys had gone to find dancing or whores or some kind of entertainment, some way to blow off steam. He and Charles hadn't bothered. Charles had found some wine somewhere, and they had set up a makeshift chessboard somehow and played into the night. Erik can't remember what they talked about anymore, but it had felt urgent and important and serious at the time, their attitudes shifting back and forth between arguing and laughing a hundred times. 

They'd finally gone to sleep, sharing the small bed in the room. There wasn't anything unusual about that, used to bunking up in close quarters or sharing warmth between them, so there wasn't any reason Erik should have felt...charged. Anticipatory. Charles had fallen asleep before him, and Erik had felt Charles's body warmth all along his and felt his own body buzz with some feeling he couldn't even name.

When he woke up, Charles was awake too but couldn't have been for very long; he was still in bed, staring up at the ceiling thoughtfully, though he turned his head toward Erik as he felt Erik stir.

His eyes had been uncannily blue in the morning sunlight, and Erik felt aware like never before of the curve of his smile, the way his freckles spotted his skin, the way he looked at Erik like he knew him and had always known him and always would. And Erik felt the sudden certainty that he could reach out right now and everything could change, that this was a moment that could go one way or another, all it would take was one touch--

And he hadn't done it. He had yawned, gotten up out of bed and taken a piss, started to pull himself together and get dressed. Magda's Dear John letter was still in the pocket of his pants; it had only come a week or so before.

Erik hasn't thought of that much since he got back home. Every couple of months, perhaps. That's all.

* * *

The people in the town give him odd looks when Erik asks for directions to Charles's place. He doesn't pay much mind to it until he starts getting close, out among the woods and the vast estates. He'd always known Charles came from money; they all had, and Charles had gotten plenty of ragging about it from all the boys, almost as much as he got about all the college stuff. But maybe Erik's imagination was too limited, because knowing Charles was rich was different from thinking of him living like a Rockefeller or a royal prince or something, up in these mansions and castles.

Erik's already here, though. He's made the trip. He drives up the endless driveway and parks, gets out of the car and walks up to the front door and knocks, same he would for anybody. 

Part of him's expecting a servant to answer, a butler or something like in the movies. But no: it's Charles he sees when the door opens.

"Erik!" Charles says, a slow smile crossing his face. "Hello."

He does not even look particularly surprised, which Erik can't help but feel slightly peevish about. Erik himself, after all, is still more surprised than not that he's actually come all this way to Charles's door. The least Charles could do was look a bit startled, if only for fairness' sake.

But Erik had forgotten this, too, hadn't he, the way Charles always seemed to almost know Erik better than he knew himself, like he always had some hint of what was going through Erik's mind. It was always a mixture of annoying and gratifying, right from the beginning.

Erik lets the thought go almost immediately. There's a bigger surprise to reflect on: the wheelchair Charles sits in. That certainly didn't make it into any of the letters.

"Hello, Charles," Erik says. He hadn't practiced a greeting on the drive here. Perhaps he should have.

Charles's smile doesn't falter. He wheels back from the door, waving Erik along with one hand. "Come in, my friend. Would you like some tea? Or coffee?"

"Coffee would be nice."

Erik follows him through wide, tall rooms full of dark wood and antiques. It could be a museum as easily as somewhere a person actually lives, but of course this is Charles's home, and he looks perfectly right in it. Erik's attention is more on Charles than it is on the surroundings, anyway. He remembers exactly how Charles looked the last time they parted ways, and his mind compares the details. 

Charles's hair is longer now. It's not quite long enough to be unkempt but it will be, before much longer. He needs a trim. The sweater he's wearing is a pale, pale blue, and it looks incredibly soft and fine and probably very expensive. Erik can see a hole the size of a nickel at the right shoulder. 

"Go ahead and sit down," Charles says when they reach the kitchen.

This room, Erik likes a bit more than the others. Still big, but cozier, like real people might use it. He can picture his mother cooking in a room like this, bustling around with just the occasional whistle over the fanciness of the range.

"I got your letters," he says into the air.

Charles glances his way from where he's measuring out the coffee. "I'm glad. I wondered. Although none of them came back return to sender or wrong address, so I held out hope."

"No," Erik says. "I got them all."

The coffee is brewing. Charles moves back over to the table, a few feet away from where Erik is sitting. The metal of the wheelchair is shiny and bright. Part of Erik wants to reach out and stroke his fingers across the clean, sharp lines of it, but of course he does no such thing.

"I thought you had gotten sick of me not writing back and just quit. But then that latest one came last week."

"No," Charles says. His mouth twists into an expression Erik can't quite name. "I was rather busy for a while. I was in hospital." He looks down at himself. "Funny, isn't it? Make it through years on the front with nary a scratch, and back in peacetime it's a teenager with an Oldsmobile who takes me out."

It wasn't funny, really.

They'd both been lucky, compared to so many of their peers. Erik can't feel cold or heat on two of his toes, and Charles had that terrible ugly wet cough that didn't seem to go away for the best part of a year, but they had missed out on the worst of it. Metal's always seemed to sing to Erik in some special way, but during the war he used to dream about it. That was some magic word, or some way to reach out, and all the bullets and bombs and shrapnel would listen to him, stay far away from him and his. 

"I should have written back," Erik says. "I should have come sooner."

"Well," Charles says, "it's good to have you here now."

Erik bites his lip. He feels, suddenly, like there's a knot in his throat, and he's almost angry about it. He manages to speak around it, staring down at the polished gleam of the table in front of him. "My mother died," he says. He pauses for a long time. Charles doesn't interrupt, like he knows Erik has more to say. "I missed you," he finishes.

"I missed you, too, my friend," Charles says, in a voice that's oddly… _gentle_ is the only word that Erik can think of. 

He looks back up, into Charles's steady gaze, and despite the awkwardness, despite this terrible house, Erik feels like he can breathe.

"Erik," Charles starts, eyes still fixed with Erik's, "I--"

He stops.

"What?" Erik says.

Charles shakes his head. "I'm going to have a piece of cake, I think. Would you like one as well? It's really very good."

It's clearly not what Charles was originally going to say, but even as Erik blinks, Charles is already moving away, back towards the counters.

"All right," Erik says, and Charles probably hardly recognizes him like this, with the way he's not pushing.

* * *

After coffee they play chess. Erik can't remember the last time he played; it's possible, probable even, that it was with Charles, and that he hasn't touched a piece since he went home. If so, that strikes him as an awful stupidity. It's something he's always enjoyed. Why let it slip away so easily, without even thinking about it? He could have found others to play with. Moira, maybe. She has that clever strategist's mind. She might have if he'd asked, but he never had.

They play one game, then another, then another. It's getting on into the evening. Halfway through they've switched from coffee to liquor, whiskey darker and richer than anything Erik's ever tasted. The conversation stays light and familiar, like they're stepping back into the same place they left off, as easy as that. 

There's something else weighing on Erik's mind, though, something he never let himself think back then. 

He waits until the end of the third game. Charles's concession makes it two victories for Erik to one for Charles'. Erik watches the strong, steady fingers tip over the king and hears his own voice saying, "May I ask you a question, Charles?"

"Of course, my friend," Charles says.

Erik says, "Do you fuck men?"

That, at least, does seem to take Charles unexpectedly. His hands tense suddenly at the words and when Erik moves his gaze up to Charles's face he sees the spark of surprise in his eyes as well, though only for a moment before his expression seems to smooth out.

"It seems to me," Charles says evenly, "that if you're asking the question, you already know the answer."

Erik absorbs that for a moment. His glass is still in his hand, fingers gripping it tight. He takes another sip of his drink to settle himself, and then says, "Would you fuck me?"

Charles is staring at him outright now. His teeth are digging into his bottom lip, as if he's thinking very hard. "Is this a hypothetical, or--or are you _asking_ me?" Charles says. It's comforting that he sounds as unsteady as Erik feels. "Do you want that?"

"I don't know what I want," Erik says. "I don't know what I'm feeling. I don't know, Charles, I just…"

He lets out a deep breath, slowly. He stands up from his chair. He crosses around the table and their chessboard until he's beside Charles, and he leans over, and he presses his mouth to Charles's in a silent plea of a kiss.

Against all odds, it feels right.

* * *

Erik has to warn Charles that he's never done any of this before, with a man.

"That's all right," Charles says. "I haven't done anything since, well, the accident. We'll both be trying something new."

He turns his head, pressing a kiss to the palm of Erik's hand, and neither of them talk for a while.

* * *

Afterwards, lying in the massive expanse of Charles's ridiculous four-poster bed, Erik realizes with some surprise that it's raining. The drops are loud and aggressive against the window. There's a shivery wind in the distance, and even a clap of thunder before the pace seems almost to double down in its force

He must react to it in some way, because Charles stirs where he's resting his head against Erik's chest. "What is it?" he mutters.

"Nothing," Erik says. After a moment, he amends it. "Rain."

"Mm," Charles says knowingly. "It's been storming all evening."

"Has it?" Erik says. "I hadn't noticed."

Dark and wet and cold and dreary outside, and here he is, warm and dry and perhaps even cozy. Erik isn't sure he understands it. It doesn't matter. He brings his hand up to stroke against Charles's soft hair.

"Do you remember…"

Charles makes a soft _hm_ noise and Erik continues: "In France, once, I heard you say that a clean pair of warm, dry socks was better than sex. Do you still think that?"

All of the guys around had laughed with Charles, ribbing him about it with dirty comments and friendly insults. Erik had almost missed the joke; he'd been too busy looking at the expression on Charles's face as he said it.

"Well," Charles says, sounding thoughtful, as if it were an important question and not just nonsense, "it depends on the quality of the sex. As well as that of the socks, I suppose."

Erik doesn't chuckle, quite, but he can feel the smile stretching the corners of his mouth. "All right," he says. He closes his eyes and listens to the sound of the rain and wind in the distance, and Charles's even breaths so close.


End file.
